


Hungry For Something That I Can't Eat

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Take Me To The Stars [24]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-08-09 22:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20124958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Determined to make the perfect soufflé, Clara's stubbornness gets the better of her and she finds herself nursing an injury. Luckily, her favourite cohabiting Time Lady is on hand to take charge... making a surprising revelation in the process.





	Hungry For Something That I Can't Eat

Clara lets out a sigh of disappointment, setting the ruined soufflé down on the side with a dejected little sigh. She’s been trying her best to reproduce her mother’s recipe for the last two weeks, and each attempt has ended thusly: with the dessert burnt to a crisp, unrisen, and generally unappetising. She can’t work out where she’s going wrong, and logically the TARDIS ought to be helping – all that time and space energy and yet it can’t even manage a sentient oven that alerts her when the damned things are cooked enough – yet it isn’t, and she can feel her frustration mounting with each failed attempt. She lets out another sigh of irritation and shoots the time machine a sour look, then immediately realises that the last thing she needs is for it to lapse into another period of sulky obstinance, and so she instead gives it the counter a fond pat.

“We’re trying our best,” she tells the ship dejectedly. “And we’ll get there eventually.”

Casting a furtive look in the direction of her bedroom, she takes out a clean mixing bowl, and decides to start from scratch.

* * *

Soufflé number fifty-two, produced with love and care and large amounts of swearing three days later, is almost edible. _Almost_. A little overdone, perhaps, but there is – Clara tells herself – only the very slightest hint of charring around the mostly-risen soufflé, and she feels a hot rush of pride as she surveys it, turning it around with her navy-blue oven-gloved hands and wondering whether she’s yet ready to allow the Doctor anywhere near the dish. She’s been careful – or rather the TARDIS has – to dispose of all previous efforts prior to the Time Lady coming into proximity with them, but this one may be the one with which she breaks cover and admits to spending copious hours in the kitchen, and she has visions of herself proudly presenting it to the Doctor. Taking off her oven gloves, she starts piling washing up into the sink, humming to herself as she does so and wondering how to present the soufflé to the Time Lady.

Before she can mull over the issue any further, the Doctor saunters into the kitchen in her dressing gown, her face lighting up as she catches a sniff of the warm, enticing smell of chocolate and then notices the soufflé sitting beside Clara. 

“Oh, brilliant!” she enthuses at once, flinging herself into a seat and pulling open a nearby drawer in search of a fork, which the TARDIS obstinately fails to provide. “Soufflé. Love a soufflé. Particularly one made by my Soufflé Girl.”

Clara experiences the usual surge of discomfort she feels whenever the nickname is used; Oswin had technically been her, yes, but it’s still uniquely disconcerting to be called by the nickname of a complete stranger. It’s like being called the wrong name at school, and it makes the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, even as the Doctor grins up at her with sincerity, finally having found a fork and holding it aloft with anticipation.

“It’s urm,” Clara looks down at the soufflé and suddenly notices precisely how carbonised the dessert is around the edges; precisely how solid and unappetising it appears, and precisely how much black has crept over the brown. She feels suddenly ashamed – how could she have considered feeding this to her partner? – and in the grip of that sentiment, she reaches for the soufflé dish with her bare hands and snatches it away from the Time Lady. There’s a cry of objection from the Doctor, and then a second later she understands why as pain lances through her palms, the red-hot ramekin burning her skin with an almost-audible sizzle, and she drops it back onto the counter, letting out a yelp of agony as she does so. 

“Clara!” the Doctor says at once, leaping to her feet and wrapping her hands loosely around Clara’s wrists as she examines her burnt palms with wide, horrified eyes. Clara allows herself to be led to the sink, and she sighs in relief as the Doctor turns on the cold tap and moves her hands under the flow of icy cold water, the skin starting to turn blissfully numb as she stands there obediently, fighting the urge to grimace. “Your hands… your poor hands!” 

“It’s fine,” Clara mumbles, flexing one hand experimentally, and pain lances through her palm instantly, eliciting a yelp of pain. “You know they’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“But you’re hurt,” the Doctor slips an arm around her waist gently and leaning over to examine the angry, red skin of Clara’s hands as she held them under the tap. “And I hate seeing you hurt.” 

“But I’ll be-” 

“That doesn’t matter. I hate seeing you hurt, ever. I know that you’ll heal, and I know that’ll you’ll be alright, but I… it hurts me, to see you like this.” 

“Sap,” Clara teases, but she leans into the embrace nonetheless, resting her head against the Doctor’s shoulder and wiggling her fingertips a little, checking how tolerable the pain is. “I’ll be OK. Promise.” 

The Doctor takes out the sonic and waves it towards Clara’s hands, squinting down at it as it whirs and hums. “Superficial burns only. The pain will probably linger for the rest of today, but-” 

“I know how I heal,” Clara reminds her pointedly. “Don’t worry so much.” 

“I like worrying about you.” 

“You don’t need to worry about me, though. I’m almost as immortal as you now, remember?” 

“You’ll always be my breakable fiancée,” the Doctor hums, pressing a kiss to Clara’s hair and letting out a soft sigh. “And I’ll always worry. Always, always, always.” 

“Sap,” Clara says again, but there’s less conviction behind it this time. “Did the soufflé survive the drop?” 

“It wasn’t much of a drop, and it’s fine. A bit deflated, but still edible.” 

“It’s not edible, it’s charred,” Clara groans, wanting to bury her head in her hands but instead settling for hiding in the crook of the Doctor’s neck. “I just can’t get it right. I’ve been trying for days, and every time-” 

“Well, the last one tasted fine to me.” 

“The…” Clara frowns, looking up at her partner with confusion. “What do you mean, ‘the last one tasted fine’?” 

“It did,” the Doctor says warmly, her face breaking into an enormous grin at the memory. “The flavour was really good, actually, and the texture was brilliant. I really liked how crunchy it was; it was much more interesting than normal food.” 

“It was gritty. I _know _it was gritty. I used too much sugar, and it burnt.”

“No, it was brilliant! The chocolate and banana was a great combination, as well; I liked that much more than the one that was just banana. Not that there’s anything wrong with just banana or just chocolate, I’m not a flavourist, but together… amazing. Absolutely, purely amazing. A sensational flavour combination, well done there, humanity.”

“I’m…” Clara narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Hang on. I thought the _TARDIS _ was the one clearing up after me.”

“Why would it do that and waste perfectly good desserts?” the Doctor raised her eyebrows, as though Clara were missing something particularly obvious. “And those soufflés were…” 

“Burnt.” 

“Delicious.” 

“Are you taking the…” Clara sighs, shaking her head in exasperation as she remembers that this is the Doctor. The Doctor, who licks walls to discern what planet they’re on, eats soil to ascertain the date, and sniffs alien slime to work out the species of origin. “I honestly don’t know whether I’m flattered or not.”

“Why on Gallifrey wouldn’t you be? Your cooking is wonderful.” 

“Because those soufflés were burnt! They were terrible! That’s why I was… that’s why I _thought _they were being got rid of!” 

“Well,” the Doctor draws herself up to her full height, adopting a maddeningly smug expression as she does so. “I thought they tasted lovely.” 

“You eat soil for fun.” 

“Not for fun,” the Doctor rolls her eyes, as though Clara’s statement is entirely, laughably ridiculous. “To make important deductions about time and space.”

“Weirdo,” Clara extracts her hands from under the tap and flicks cold water at the Doctor, who yelps in shock as several damp spots speckle across her dressing gown. Clara’s palms screech a protest, so she cups her hands together and allows them to fill with water before splashing the Doctor again. 

“Hey!” the Time Lady protests, stepping backwards and looking wounded, her fingers plucking over the wet fabric as she speaks, holding it out from her skin with a wounded expression. “You’re supposed to be easing the pain, not making me all wet!”

“Why not both?” Clara asks, flicking her again, and the Doctor bursts into giggles by way of response, her dressing gown now thoroughly sodden. “Weird soil-eating woman.” 

“Hey!” the Doctor shoots back, cupping her own hand under the tap and splashing Clara in retaliation. Clara lets out a cry of complaint, but the Doctor merely repeats the action, Clara’s t-shirt becoming increasingly damp with each dousing of water. “It’s for _science_.” 

“You nerd,” Clara says fondly, reaching up as she speaks and allowing water from her cupped hand to trickle down the Doctor’s forehead and over her cheeks, maintaining a look of utmost innocence as she does so. “You’re uh… you’ve got a little something…” 

“Have I now?” the Doctor grins, wrapping her arms around Clara’s waist and kissing her. Her lips are wet and her breath is coming in short pants as she laughs into the kiss, but Clara doesn’t care; she merely reciprocates with her own laughter and breaks away to nuzzle into the Doctor’s neck. There’s a sudden cold sensation on her upper thigh, and she realises the Doctor has pressed a cold, damp handprint onto the leg of her pyjama trousers. “You’ve got something there too… right on your…” 

“You are just…” Clara muses, shaking her head as she reaches behind her for the washing up that’s piled in the sink. “Absolutely too much.” 

And with that, she tips a jug full of soufflé mix and water over the Doctor’s head, then dances off in the direction of the console room, laughing as she goes.


End file.
